


Other Perversions

by Gileonnen



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Multilingual Double Entendres, PWP, Robot Sex, Sexy Sexy Overclocking, Sparring as Sex by Other Means, Xenophobia and Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21961228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: Mithrax is every inch a Kell, and Shiro-4 should hate him for it--but he's finding other ways to work through his feelings.
Relationships: Mithrax/Shiro-4 (Destiny)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 120





	Other Perversions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanyart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/gifts).



Mithrax is all angles and sharp edges, darting blades and talons; he advances like an avalanche, and Shiro can only duck and roll under the force of his attack. He springs to his feet at Mithrax's back and lunges, swinging Quickfang two-handed. All of the rage and helplessness of the SIVA crisis is in that strike--all of Shiro's fear and hurt and longing. His sword cuts through the air like vengeance.

A shock blade catches Quickfang only inches from Mithrax's unarmored neck. Burning blue eyes meet Shiro's; the shock blade crackles with electricity. Every coiled spring and actuator strains, Golden Age engineering pitted against Mithrax's sheer strength. Shiro's circuits sing, drinking in every sensation greedily.

The rasp of Mithrax's breath. The heat rising off of him in waves. The taut muscles of his throat.

The shock blade slides down to catch in Quickfang's notch, and then Mithrax is twisting his sword to rip Shiro's from his hands. Quickfang clatters across the tiled floor.

Both of them step back. Mithrax bows first, an elegant sweep of limbs and cloak; when he rises again to his full height, Shiro has to crane his neck to meet his eyes. Every inch of Mithrax cries _Kell_ , battle-tested and ether-fed, and there's a part of Shiro that still burns with anger at the sight. There's a part that still sees the fires of Old Russia reflected in that golden armor.

That part is smaller now, though, and quieter.

He makes his own bow, deep and respectful. "A fair fight, well fought," he says in the rumbling accents of high Wolves.

Mithrax gives a low click of laughter. "So says the man who has three times docked himself to fight me as an equal. There is no pleasure in such a victory."

The word he chooses is not only _pleasure_ , but _satiation_ \--the lazy joy that follows a filling meal, a draught of ether, the act of sex.

When his taloned fingers ease back Shiro's hood, every primed receptor from brow to shoulder lights up in anticipation. He reaches up (and up, and up) to unhook the straps of Mithrax's helmet and pulls it free.

Bared, Mithrax bends down to him. Their brows touch, metal to bone, intimate as a kiss. Mithrax closes his eyes and draws in a long, savoring breath. His exhalation tastes of ether and lightning. Shiro's chest heats; coolant surges, unbidden, in every capillary duct.

He cancels the process. He craves the warmth of overstimulation.

By now, they know every clasp and catch of each other's armor by touch. Shiro unlatches the heavy furred pauldrons and cloak as Mithrax slides his claws under the edge of Shiro's breastplate; they work free each other's bracers and wrist wraps. Shiro's fingertips graze the naked flesh at the crook of Mithrax's arm, and Mithrax shudders and clutches at him as though he's touched an exposed nerve.

Impossible not to feel how vulnerable he is, like this. A single sun-hot punch to the throat would undo him.

Shiro slides his cheek against Mithrax's mandible, nuzzling beneath his jaw. The low sound that Mithrax makes is almost a purr; it resonates in the hollows of Shiro's cheeks until he can feel it echoing warm and brassy in his modulator. He hums in answer and urges Mithrax back, onto a shallow stone bench. "Sit down," he murmurs. "Let me touch you."

He climbs astride one massive thigh, working his ass slowly over the smooth, armored peak of it. The pressure between his legs is almost too good--he could grind himself to climax like this, arms around Mithrax's neck, letting him map every sensitive receptor with those unrelenting claws. But the armored plates at Mithrax's abdomen are sliding apart, baring the slick tip of his genital organ, and Shiro's whole body runs hot at the thought of having the whole thing inside him.

He circles the slit with his fingers, pressing gently at those flexible exoskeletal plates, coaxing Mithrax's full length free. Mithrax raises both primary hands to cup Shiro's face; his eyes gleam, bright with lust and etherlight, and Shiro can't look away.

"My friend," whispers Mithrax, "I should not have claimed victory so swiftly--in your hands, I am overcome."

Shiro presses their brows together. Mithrax's eyes slide closed; his mouth hangs open, sharp teeth shining in the warm, orange light of the braziers. Shiro traces Mithrax's throat, his shoulders, the fold where thigh meets loin. The texture of his skin is overwhelming. Shiro's hand is so warm that Mithrax feels cool to the touch. "I need you," says Shiro. He hears the slight distortion in his own voice, the warm analog muzziness of arousal. "You ready?"

Mithrax nods against him.

Shiro sways up to his knees. A sub-processor overheats; the colors in the room flicker, fade from flame-orange to lush indigo. Jets of coolant pump and surge in parallel with a rush of lubricant.

He folds himself against Mithrax's chest, letting those four arms wrap around him and support him. Then he takes Mithrax in hand and guides him toward his entrance.

At first there's friction, the artificial resistance of silicone and delicate actuators--then one long, smooth thrust, a sweet torrent of data that washes through Shiro in a wave. He groans and buries his face in Mithrax's chest, relishing the feeling of fullness as his ass comes to rest on Mithrax's thighs. He can feel every curve and ridge, every soft vestigial barb inside him, and he wants this feeling to go on forever.

They sit like that for long moments, slowly rocking together, eyes shut and brows pressed close. Shiro loses himself in the rush of Mithrax's breath and the steady pressure of his hands, the way every slight shift of his weight seems to drive Mithrax deeper. Time spools out like melting spinmetal as Shiro begins to ride him harder, raising himself up and grinding down again until Mithrax gives a guttural cry and thrusts up into him.

Every synapse and receptor overloads at once. Every searing circuit aches with pleasure; Shiro crests the threshold and crashes over it, shaking with ecstasy as Mithrax urges him down and down and down again.

Still sparking with aftershocks of orgasm, Shiro lets himself go limp against Mithrax. His hand find one of Mithrax's secondaries and clasps it. "I think you were right the first time," he manages to mumble. "You definitely won this round."


End file.
